


every motion is closer to touching

by addandsubtract



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crime Fighting, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>white collar au! ten scenes from what probably could have been a much longer story. marcus is fbi, esca is a criminal, and together, they solve crime! what could go wrong, honestly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	every motion is closer to touching

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for all the stuff I don't actually know about the fbi.

**one.**

Esca is drunk when Marcus finally finds him. He’s sitting on the floor of an empty loft apartment downtown, leaning against the back wall with one knee pulled up to his chest and the other leg sprawled carelessly in front of him. He has a half empty bottle of vodka in one hand, and an entirely empty bottle of wine next to his left foot.

“I knew you’d find me,” Esca slurs, and takes a swig of vodka. His accent is thicker than ever. He’s smiling, a little, though his head is leaning to the side, and it looks off kilter.

“You weren’t that hard to locate, honestly.” Marcus stuffs his hands into the pockets of his suit pants and rocks back on his heels. “After you’ve caught a criminal once, it’s not very difficult to find them a second time.”

Esca laughs, though the sound isn’t happy. Marcus crosses the room and pulls the vodka bottle from Esca’s hand, ignoring Esca’s vague noise of protest.

“So, Liathan left you a message, huh?” He crouches next to Esca, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, and watches the way Esca’s eyes track across his face.

“Yep,” Esca says, careful to enunciate the _p_ , and glances briefly at the empty bottle of wine.

“What was it?” Marcus’s voice is bland and curious, a front for the scrutiny with which he’s watching Esca’s face.

“’Don’t look for me,’” Esca parrots, almost a sneer. “And I couldn’t help myself, of course, but he knew that. Not with what he’s got. Which is why he left me the kind souvenir.” He pauses, swallows, and Marcus’s eyes follow the line of his throat without permission. “I’m going back to prison for this, aren’t I?”

“You escaped from custody, impersonated a guard, and evaded capture for almost twenty-four hours,” Marcus says. “Of course you’re going back to prison. And you only had four months left. Aren’t you happy to have dual citizenship?” Marcus sighs. It’s almost a pity – Esca was one of his favorites to chase, and he harbors no actual dislike. For a criminal, Esca is fair, and non-violent. Doesn’t mean Marcus would trust him with the keys to the safe, but, well. He’d prefer Esca to most of the louts he has to deal with on a regular basis. He’s smart. Marcus has thought, a few times, that he could use Esca’s help.

“I hate prison,” Esca says, with the honesty of someone who wouldn’t be saying anything if it weren’t for the alcohol flooding his system. Marcus winces.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have become a criminal,” Marcus says. He tightens his hand around the neck of the bottle, and resists the urge to take a swig himself. He can’t believe he’s going to suggest this. “Look, if you cooperate now, I’ll talk to the DA, see if I can’t get you deal.”

Esca’s eyes snap up to Marcus’s face, wide and vivid blue, hugely dilated. “You’d do that for me?”

Marcus reaches back onto his belt and holds out his set of regulation handcuffs, letting them dangle in the air. Esca watches them move, and Marcus can see the way his fingers twitch. He could get out of these easy-peasy. The question is if he will.

 

 **two.**

Marcus doesn’t have a desk. Well, he has one in FBI headquarters, but not in the rooms that he rents from his uncle. Instead, he sits cross-legged on his bed, and spreads Esca’s file out in front of him. It’s thick, due mostly to a lot of work on Marcus’ part, though half of the crimes can only be tied to Esca through circumstance, or MO. For most of them, they can’t prove his involvement, even though they know it without question.

And tomorrow, Marcus is getting him released, only a plastic tracking anklet between Esca and freedom. He should be kicking himself right about now. But instead his heart is racing, and he can feel the anticipation building. He has to admit that the job has been a little more boring since he put Esca away. He’s – looking forward to it. He’s not sure what that says about him.

With a sigh, he slides the papers back into their place in the file and closes it, tosses it onto the bedside table. He opens the drawer, where a normal person might keep their glasses, or a bottle of aspirin, and pops out the false bottom. Then he slides his father’s file out from the opened space.

He’s read it thousands of times. He has large chunks of it memorized, and the edges of the pages have started to go soft from the oil of his fingers. The first page is general information – his father’s age, date of birth, and death, his years of active service with the FBI, the date of his official relief from duty. The pages after that are his successful cases, the ones they’d had to go over when they’d found evidence of his betrayal of the service, and the open cases he’d been dealing with at the time.

The last seven pages are the remnants of the case that killed him – the theft of the Eagle from Major Lutorius’ private collection. No suspects, nothing caught on tape, next to nothing to go on. Nothing but the apparently airtight proof that Marcus’ father was purposefully obstructing the investigation. Marcus’ fingers tighten on the paper of their own volition, his father’s proud face staring at him from the picture on file. It’s a pipe dream, thinking that he’ll ever be able to clear his father’s name, but it’s one he holds onto nonetheless.

And now he has Esca to deal with. Esca, who might know something about where the Eagle is, now. The problem being, Marcus can’t imagine trusting Esca enough to ask.

 

 **three.**

“Well?” Marcus has one hand on the doorknob, watching Esca take in the room. It’s a small attic apartment, all told, mostly autonomous from the rest of the house. It does have a kitchen nook, and the bed is around a corner from the door, shielding it from immediate view. The balcony, Marcus admits, he is a little jealous of. He had his change to claim this apartment, though, and he hadn’t wanted to live right above his uncle’s bedroom. Just in case he managed to bring someone home. “If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to find some alternate accommodation,” Marcus says, though he knows that Esca’s choices are limited.

Marcus is young and unattached. Sure, he gets some flack at the office for living with his uncle, but his uncle is rich, and charges less rent than Marcus would otherwise be able to afford, given his income. Marcus lives on the other end of the house, just off the kitchen.

“Are you fucking with me?” Esca asks, his face inscrutable. He’s in a t-shirt and tight jeans, and Marcus can see the bulge of his tracking anklet beneath the fabric. He can also see the dark blue lines and whorls and shapes of Esca’s tattoo snaking down his arm. Marcus shrugs.

“Why would I be fucking with you?” He grins, and then adds, “This way I can keep an eye on you.”  
Esca rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything sharp. He must actually like the apartment. “Thank your uncle for me.”

“I’m sure you’ll see him,” Marcus says, “you can thank him yourself. I’ll let you get settled.”

Marcus closes the door behind him, and waits until he’s tramped down the stairs to the second floor hallway to let out his sigh. This is probably an even worse idea than the four-year deal they have. Ideally, he’ll get laid sometime in the near future and can stop thinking about how _smart_ Esca is, and how blue his eyes are. It’s more than a little pathetic. It’s also part of why chasing him had been so fun.

“Yeah, that’s gonna work,” he mutters to himself, and heads downstairs to his rooms.

 

 **four.**

“He wouldn’t do that, though,” Esca is saying. He’s still in a t-shirt, and he’s tapping his fingers against the desk in the conference room. “Not if he didn’t _want_ to get caught.”

“Why?” Marcus asks, waving off Placidus, who is already opening his mouth to argue. Placidus is a stick in the mud – good at the by-the-book, and not much else. Marcus is inclined to believe Esca in this particular case, given his expertise, but he still has to know the reasons.

“Look,” Esca starts, and then cuts himself off. He rubs a hand through his hair and starts over. “Any smart criminal knows how the feds work, alright? The plane ticket is a fake, meant to make you divert most of your attention there. This bloke just isn’t that dumb, he couldn’t be that dumb and pull off as much of the heist as he has. He’ll be holed up somewhere, waiting for you lot to head to airport, while he escapes some other way.” Esca shrugs, fluidly, and Marcus is reminded of the rooftop chase that eventually ended in a broken ankle for Marcus and another daring escape for Esca. He’s stealthy and graceful, and he knows how to make an exit.

“Fine,” Marcus says, nodding. “Placidus, take some back up and make sure that the plane ticket is a fake.” Placidus makes to protest again, but Marcus cuts him off with a sharp glance. Then he turns to Esca. “You and I, we’re going to figure out where he’s holed up. Got it?”

Marcus sees the flash of a wicked smile, the reminder of how much Esca likes being smarter than other people, but it’s quickly submerged beneath his usual blank face. He nods, once, and Marcus has to tell himself, again, that Esca isn’t to be trusted. Not completely.

 

 **five.**

Marcus puts his leg up on the coffee table, stretched out straight, and tries not to be glad that today is over. Marcus is as glad as anyone that Esca’s expertise is pushing up their close percentages, but his added opinions tend to lead them into more precarious situations. Marcus’ leg is nominally healed, but it does tend to stiffen up after a few days of strenuous activity. The gunshot had gone directly into the muscle of his thigh, and it had taken more rehab than Marcus wants to remember to get him up to the 90% he usually hovers around.

He presses the heel of his hand against the tense muscle, pushing down hard enough to suppress the small spasms. He grits his teeth, and wishes that he’d gotten a beer before he sat down on the couch. It hurts too much to bother, right now.

“Leg acting up?” Marcus looks up, surprised, to find Esca leaning against the wood framing that signified the transition from the large kitchen into the even larger living room. He’s wearing a white tank top and skintight jean shorts that cut off just above the knee. Marcus tries not to stare at the exposed curve of Esca’s shoulders, the hollow of his throat, and the wide wingtips of his collarbones. The tattoos.

“Uh,” Marcus says, and shakes his head. “Yeah. Not all of us are as young and spry as you are.”

Esca snorts, and walks down the three short steps into the living room. He saunters around the couch, and sprawls next to Marcus – close enough to touch, but far enough away that it would take effort. “You can’t be more than four years older than I am,” Esca says. “You just haven’t learned how to properly take care of yourself.”

Marcus has to remind himself, here, that Esca isn’t flirting. Esca isn’t the population of the clubs Marcus attends when he wants to let off some steam. He’s sarcastic, and charming, and completely aware of it.

“I think I can manage just fine,” Marcus says, and then hisses as the muscle clenches and spasms. “Motherfucker.”

“Aye, you’ve got that completely under control.” Esca laughs, and Marcus is grateful for his leg, in that moment, because it keeps him from watching.

“If you’re gonna be smart, you might as well get me a beer,” Marcus says. He massages the cramping muscle, ignoring the way the twisted knot of scar tissue feels beneath his prodding fingers. “You can take one for yourself, too, if you want. They’re in the fridge.”

Esca rolls his shoulders. “So you think you own me, then, do you,” Esca says, with something hard underneath the joking tone in his voice.

“According to the United States government I do,” Marcus says, because it’s true. No matter how much Esca doesn’t like it, Marcus is the only thing keeping him out of prison. “But mostly my leg fucking hurts, dude, okay? Please don’t make me get up.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Esca’s shoulders. Not enough to call him relaxed, but enough to ease Marcus’ mind for the moment. Esca knows he’s not making up the pain – they had two run-ins while Marcus was still healing, and Marcus can still remember the look on Esca’s face when he’d seen the limp. Mostly, in fact, because it had surprised him. Esca, apparently, liked being chased by someone smart about as much as Marcus liked doing the chasing.

“Any particular label?” Esca asks, pulling himself to his feet, and stretching his arms over his head. Marcus doesn’t look at the way his shirt pulls taut over his stomach. It’s close enough to peace, for the moment.

 

 **six.**

“Down, down!” Marcus yells, and Esca drops to the concrete floor like a stone. They’ve worked together long enough now that some things have become instinct. Marcus has one instant to feel gratified at the instant response, and then he’s returning fire over the stack of crates he’s crouched behind. There’s a twinge in his leg, but it’s crucial that he ignore it until later.

“Esca, get behind cover, and stay low,” he grits out, and thinks, _and later we’re going to have a talk._

He sees Esca nearing another stack of crates to his left, and the suspect, Murray Conroy, takes off for the back exit, shooting wildly over his shoulder. Conroy is crafty, but Esca’s done his job, and he’s not expecting the bust. Marcus radios Placidus in the van and giving him the heads up as he chases Conroy outside. He’s maybe twenty steps behind, and he slams into the metal door with his shoulder, hard enough that he’s going to have a bruise there, later. He can hear the sirens signaling that backup is on the way, so he sprints the last yard and tackles Conroy, hard, into the asphalt. The thing about docks is that they’re huge and the warehouses have less security than, say, a storage facility downtown, but the options for escape tend to be more limited. After all, one entire sector is cut off by the ocean.

He gets to use his handcuff, though, and keeps Conroy facedown on the ground while he waits for the troops.

He hears the metallic scrape of the door swinging open again, and turns his head to watch Esca peer around the edge of the doorframe.

“Ah,” he says, “you got him. I figured that was what the lack of gunshots meant.”

“I did,” Marcus says, “and I would be thanking you right now for your help if you hadn’t nearly gotten yourself killed in the process.”

“I’ve gone into meets before, you know that’s the part I’m good at –”

“Yeah, but on most cases you have _backup_ , Esca, not ‘oh, I’m sure Marcus will figure it out and come save my ass’.” Marcus sounds livid, because he is. Esca does good work, but circumventing the process will only lead either to his untimely death, or his return to prison. Neither of which Marcus wants, honestly.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright? The little bugger was feeling scared, I had to keep him on the line.” Esca steps out into the alleyway and has the grace to look slightly remorseful.

“I have a cell phone. Next time, text me.” Marcus pushes against Conroy’s back, making sure he’s secure, and doesn’t look at Esca. He thinks about the seventeen minutes during which they’d realized that not only did they not know where Esca was, but that he’d set up the meet on his own. He thinks about the way that his stomach had dropped, and how quickly he’d gone from, _he’s escaping again_ , to _something’s happened to him_.

He’s afraid if he looks at Esca now, some of that will show. So he keeps his eyes on the back of Conroy’s neck, and waits for backup to show.

 

 **seven.**

“I know that you’re still trying to find him.” Marcus doesn’t like to beat around the bush. Being blunt has always worked just fine for him.

Esca looks up from the wood table he’s currently bent over, and for once Marcus doesn’t have to try not to appreciate the view.

“I know the signs, Esca. You’ve haven’t changed enough for me not to.” And Esca has changed, in some respects. He’s an integral part of the team, and Marcus would trust him unfailingly in most case related situations. But not with this.

“You’ve got me there, mate,” Esca says. He’s leaning over a set of ancient blueprints, taking meticulous notes in blue pen in a small, leather-bound notebook.

“Why?” Marcus doesn’t try to keep the betrayal out of his voice. He digs his fingernails into the doorframe, and stays in the hallway.

“I didn’t want to involve you,” Esca says, with a shrug that’s more contrived than careless. “You’ve more to lose than I, and I didn’t want to be responsible for that.”

Marcus snorts. It’s almost sweet, in a twisted kind of way. Sweet, and a little naïve, two things Marcus was fairly certain Esca was incapable of being. It’s why he’s sure there’s something Esca isn’t telling him. “I’m responsible for everything that you do, Esca. Every slip up is my slip up.” He sighs, and shakes his head. “It’s my job not to let you do this.”

“What about as my friend?” Esca doesn’t look up, and it’s just as well, because Marcus doesn’t want to contemplate the shock on his face. It’s the first time Esca has used that word in conjunction with their relationship, and Marcus fully expected him never to.

“I can’t help you,” Marcus says, “and I won’t let you endanger your freedom, Esca.” _I don’t want you to go back to prison_ , he doesn’t say. It goes unspoken, though Marcus is fairly sure that Esca can hear it in the nuances.

“So don’t help me,” Esca says, and finally looks up. His eyes are vivid blue and full of steel. His shoulders are set, ready for a fight that Marcus doesn’t want to have. “Just go.”

Marcus wonders if they’ve hit a turning point. He knows that the information Esca has is illegally obtained. That alone is enough to break their fragile contract. But he – hasn’t asked Esca about his sources. As long as he doesn’t, he can pretend that he doesn’t know. He’s been hedging his legal bets long enough with his own search – he knows how this goes.

The question is always – what is he willing to do for Esca? And the answer is always, terrifyingly, certainly – whatever is necessary.

“Okay,” he says, instead of, _what aren’t you telling me?_ and backs away from the open doorway. “I’ll go.”

 

 **eight.**

Esca’s still bleeding a little when Marcus kisses him. He can smell it, the long scrape along Esca’s cheek, the tang of salt and copper. He pushes Esca back against the bathroom sink, bloody gauze discarded in the bowl. There are a few stray drops on the white porcelain, and Esca’s hand smears one as he catches himself. Marcus has one hand fisted in Esca’s t-shirt, knuckles pressed against his ribcage, high on the right side, and Esca’s mouth is warm. Something in Marcus gives at the feel of it, at the smell of the blood and the eager way that Esca opens for him.

Not bad enough for stitches, but enough to scar, at least for a while. Some perp with brass knuckles, an enforcer, and Marcus had watched Esca go down. He doesn’t remember cuffing the asshole, but he does remember slamming his face into the floorboards. Esca looking at him with wide eyes from his sprawl on the floor, the blood dripping off of his chin.

Esca still has blood underneath his fingernails from trying to get himself cleaned up, and when he grabs hold of Marcus’s shirt he leaves pinkish streaks behind on the white cotton.

“This is why you stay _out_ of the line of fire,” Marcus says against Esca’s mouth, instead of, _I was worried_ , or _I’ll kill anyone who touches you_.

“I tried,” Esca says, and then kisses him again, biting into Marcus’ lower lip and soothing the hurt with his tongue. He presses himself all along Marcus’ body, thighs and hips and stomach, and Marcus can feel that he’s getting hard. Marcus runs a thumb over his jaw, and cups his cheek, and crowds him back against the sink. Marcus is reminded of how long he’s wanted this, and how much.

“God,” Esca says, leaning into Marcus’ hand. “You feel nice.”

“Don’t fuck with me now,” Marcus says, because if this is going to happen, Marcus isn’t willing to go back on it. “Esca.” His voice isn’t sharp, or weak. It’s soft, and certain.

Esca kisses him again, pushing and pushing, until Marcus gives in. If he’s going to be honest, he was never going to do anything else.

 

 **nine.**

Marcus doesn’t get a hint before it happens. He’s paying attention, but Esca is better at hiding the important things than anyone Marcus knows. All Marcus gets is a call at 2:13 AM that the anklet has been triggered. Esca is long gone when Marcus gets up the stairs to the attic. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but then, he does – he’d thought they’d built up enough trust that when this eventually happened, he’d at least know it was coming.

There are piles of paper on the kitchen table, haphazardly spread – maps and blueprints, lists of false names, several museum brochures and three ancient photographs. All of it damning evidence, and none of it pointed in any particular direction. Esca’s been looking for Liathan for almost a year, with the patience and diligence of someone unendingly stubborn. Of course he’s gone the moment he finds the right information. It only makes sense. Esca has never before been a stationary individual. His heists have taken him in and out of most European countries and through half of South America.

Marcus forces down the immediate anger, the disappointment, the _why wasn’t I good enough?_ It has nothing to do with him at all. Only Liathan, and Esca’s history with him.

Marcus sorts through the paper as he’s trained to look at any crime scene. He arranges them by date, trying to piece together a timeline. Then he starts to look through the apartment in general – opening books to look for hidden boxes, pulling out drawers to check for false bottoms, or keys taped underneath them. He moves every picture hung on the walls, even though most of them have been there since before Esca moved in. He finds several sets of lock picks, a few news clippings of Esca’s exploits, and some empty spaces where items have obviously been retrieved. Money, maybe, or false identification.

He finds the note stuck to the fridge with a magnet. It’s so banal and domestic that he almost laughs.

>   
> _marcus,_
> 
>  _I know you must be disappointed and angry with me. I’m sorry it had to be like this, but I can’t just let things lie. I’ll try not to get caught again._
> 
>  _esca_

Marcus comes close enough to punching the refrigerator that his pulse quickens, his breath coming too quickly.

“I’ll catch you again, you know,” he says, to the air. “I’ve done it twice, I can do it again. And this time you’ll go back to prison.”

Marcus rubs a hand over his eyes, and leaves the papers where they lie. He has work to do.

 

 **ten.**

Esca wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and Marcus wipes his knuckles off on the hem of his button-down. He can still feel Esca’s teeth against his fist, the way his lip had split open beneath the force of it.

“I deserved that, I suppose,” Esca says, and he laughs, ignoring the way it must pull at his lip. Marcus doesn’t smile. It’s been three weeks since Esca left, and Marcus wasn’t expecting to still be angry about it. But he is. He’s angry.

He thinks about arresting Esca now, reciting his Miranda rights and pinning his arms behind his back and catching the next flight home. It would be the least difficult part of the case up until now. It’s been a hard three days.

“I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t stop me,” Esca says, like he’s trying to excuse himself, and maybe he is, but Marcus has enough pictures of the meeting with Liathan to put Esca away for as long as Marcus wants to argue for.

“For the life of me, I can’t figure out when I decided it would be a good idea to trust you. _You_. What was I thinking?” Marcus watches the way Esca shifts his weight, and it’s not like him to show his discomfort that easily.

“I had to see him, Marcus.” There’s a note of something in his voice – if Marcus were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, he’d call it pleading.

“I should get you back to prison,” Marcus says, conversationally. He still has Esca cornered and they both know it.

“Marcus –” Esca starts, and takes a few steps closer. The last time he did that, Marcus punched him. The time before that, Marcus had pushed him down onto Esca’s bed, and they’d made out like teenagers. Marcus tenses all over. “He knows what you’re looking for, okay? He hasn’t got it, but he knows – he knows who does. I wanted – I was going to get it, before you caught me the first time, so I could. Taunt you with it.”

“You –” Marcus says, furious, but Esca interrupts him.

“Shut up! I haven’t got it. I never found it. The message Liathan gave me in prison was to forget about it, but I couldn’t, and then –”

“What are you talking about?” Marcus asks, because Esca is close enough to smell now, close enough to touch, and his face is blank as he talks. There’s blood dripping off of his chin. Déjà vu.

“Marcus, I know who’s got the Eagle.” He presses his fingers just against Marcus’ jaw, and Marcus jolts. It’s like an electric shock. “I was going to get it for you, but.” He shrugs, tight and unhappy. “You found me first.”

“Why?” Marcus asks, before he can stop himself. He wonders how long Esca has known about it. It was stupid to think that someone like Esca wouldn’t make the connection, not between Marcus’ name and his single-minded devotion to the bureau. He wonders if the file is still in his bedside table. “Why would you do that?”

Esca shrugs again, and looks Marcus right in the face, chin tilted up. He looks fierce, proud. There is nothing on that face that Marcus doesn’t recognize. “Because you care about it. Because without me, you’ll never get it.”

Esca goes on his tiptoes to kiss Marcus, and Marcus knows that he should pull away, but he doesn’t. If he’s honest, he never will.

“Okay,” he says, eventually. “Okay, then, let’s go.”


End file.
